I hadn’t seen him in ten years, but I instantly recognized him, even in the fleeting second it took his train to pass. He must have been headed toward Boston, or farther. I never knew for certain. I haven’t seen him since those few seconds I glimpsed his profile through the passing window of the moving train.

Sometimes I’m tempted to hop a train and just go. Never look back.

But I don’t like train stations. They always seem empty to me, no matter how many people are there. It’s the place you go to get somewhere else. Nobody stays. Everybody leaves as quickly as they can. It’s a place of departures.

Temporary. Like life.

Train stations always seem to be filled with the shells of empty people. People, waiting. Just waiting. They’re passengers, and they’re just watching as life flies by out the window.

I didn’t see anyone else that I recognized on the train, and even as I thought about him, my memory of his face in the window began to fade.

I hate train stations.

They’re a place for ghosts.